“I can hardly make Mr. Fane lower the rents, can I?”
“You could make up the difference yourself.”
As this was precisely what Farquhar had determined to do, he was, of course, struck by her intelligence. But he did his alms in modest secrecy. “I dare say they will find the extra sixpence,” he said.
“They can’t. Searle drinks, and the others are as bad, or worse. They’re helpless.”
Farquhar did not answer her. She had just moved into the sunlight, and he was startled by her beauty. No flower-loveliness was hers, delicate and evanescent; she glowed like a jewel with colour, the brighter for the sunlight which illumined the rich damask of her cheeks, the rich whiteness of her brow, the rich hazel of her eyes, the rich chestnut of her hair. Dolly Fane possessed in its full splendour the misnamed devil’s beauty, the beauty of colour, vitality, youth. Her lips were virginally severe, her figure slight, girlishly formed, not yet mature; she was not so old, nor yet so self-possessed, as she wished to appear.
“Well, if you are giving in there is no more to be said,” she added, with a slight contemptuous movement which was plainly a prelude to showing him out.
Farquhar hastily cast to the winds his modest reserve. “I am not giving in; I do mean to make up the difference,” he said.
“You do?” said Dolly, fastening her eyes upon him.
“You’re very charitable, Miss Fane,” said Farquhar, smiling.
“Not in the least. I am sorry for Mrs. Searle; but I did not ask you for that reason. I wanted to see what you are like. You’ve spoken to my brother Bernard once or twice, haven’t you?”